“The paper said – ”
I let out a long breath, then tell her, as nicely as I can, that whatever the newspaper says is bullshit. “The paper has more fantasy in it than a Star Trek script.”
“Then you’re not in trouble?”
“No. Just hungry.”
I’m so glad I don’t read the paper.
The door of the storeroom between the bathrooms opens, and to my surprise, another waitress steps out and moves up the aisle to the only other customer in the place, a bald man wearing a green polo shirt.
Cecilia clears her throat and says, “She started the night of the flood and we all almost drowned trying to get out of here.”
“What’s her name?”
“That’s for you to find out,” Cecilia whispers. On her way back to the cash register, she taps the new waitress on the shoulder and points to me.
Turning my way, the new waitress pulls a pencil from the top pocket of her uniform. She’s very pretty and has a nice, petite shape that looks damn good in white. Her dark brown hair is cut in a long page boy. She looks like Marisa Tomei, a lot like Marisa Tomei.
She doesn’t look at me until she reaches my booth. When she does, she focuses a pair of large blue-green eyes at me – aquamarine eyes. I feel my chest tighten a moment, but it fades into a sinking feeling. She’s young, too young. Twenty maybe.
I look around her at the menu on the wall above the counter, as if I need to look at it. “I’d like a cheese-burger. Fries. And a Barq’s, please.”
Nodding, she writes my order on her pad then looks back at me.
“Anything else, officer?” The way she calls me “officer” makes me sound old. She has a nice mouth, a little too large for her small face. Her lips are delicate and sculptured. She is fuckin’ beautiful.
I shake my head and she pirouettes and walks away. I look out at the dark night. I’d don’t want to look at her backside again. When she came out of the supply room, I’d more than noticed how nice it was.
She returns with the Barq’s and smiles shyly at me. I reach for the icy bottle of root beer, expecting her to leave, only she doesn’t. I look up at the aquamarines. She tilts her head to the side, her hair falling away from her face on one side and across her neck on the other. She says, “Why is your houseboat called Sad Lisa?”
I sit back and smile slightly and tell her the previous owner named it. “Probably after the Cat Stevens song.”
“Who?”
Too young to know Cat Stevens. I feel old.
“Why didn’t you change the name?” Her voice is deep and sounds very sexy, like Lauren Bacall back when she was about twenty, spinning Bogie’s head around.
I shrug. “I had a cousin named Lisa who died a long time ago. Leukemia. So I figured, why change the name?”
“Oh.” She looks over her shoulder at the bald-headed man, then looks back at me and says, “What’s it like to kill someone?”
It’s like a stab in my belly. I narrow my eyes and look deep into the aquamarines. I want to say something cute, like asking if she’s writing a book or maybe working for the FBI, but I don’t feel cute, so I say, “It’s different each time.”
Her mouth makes an ‘O’.
Joe puts my plate on the counter and calls out, “Ready.”
She backs away and I look out at the night again.
When she returns with my burger and fries, she leaves a bottle of ketchup. I watch her go to the front and sit on the stool next to Cecilia at the register. She has an easy, smooth walk and her legs look extra nice when crossed.
I pick up the burger and take a bite and it’s spicy-delicious, just the way I like it. I wave to Joe who grins at me. I look out at the night once more as I eat the burger and the fries, washing them down with the cold Barq’s. Cecilia starts talking to the bald customer about the great flood, how Flamingo’s would have bought it if it wasn’t elevated several feet. The new waitress waits until I finish before bringing me a second Barq’s without me asking. I like that. I thank her and take a swig.
She puts her knee up on the bench on the other side of my booth and puts her right hand on her hip, the aquamarines staring at me again. I stare back for long seconds before she finally blinks and says, “What kind of accent is that?”
“Cajun, I guess.”
Her head tilts again. “Cecilia said you’re Sioux Indian.”
“My mother is Oglala Sioux, my father was pure Boogaleé.”
She looks over her shoulder at the front door, then looks back and says, “Boogaleé?”
“A polite term for Coon-Ass.” Which is slang for Cajun.
She looks at the front door again, then asks, “What happened to your face?” She points at the my left cheek.
“Cut myself shaving.”
She looks back at the front door just as it opens. A burly man with curly salt-and-pepper hair steps in. Wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, he waves to the waitress, who turns back to me and pulls her note pad from her pocket. She puts my check next to my plate. She looks again at the burly man who’s leaning an elbow on the counter now.
I dig out a twenty and tell her to keep the change.
“Thanks.” She smiles for the first time and her face brightens. She shoves the money and ticket into her pocket, grabs my dish and utensils in one scoop and moves away.
I get up and go to the bathroom. When I step back out, I see her leaving with the burly man. They climb into a Yellow Cab and drive off down Orpheum. I grab my radio and move to the front of the cafe and sit on the first stool next to Cecilia, who’s preparing to close the cafe at midnight.
“Coffee?” Cecilia asks.
“Sure.”
She pours me a mug and puts it in front of me.
I laugh at myself and say aloud, “Didn’t even get her name.”
“Angie,” Cecilia says. “Angie Calogne. She’s twenty-two. Goes to UNO. That was her daddy. He drops her off and picks her up. Pretty ain’t she?”
I take a sip of coffee. “Do you know anyone around here missing a puppy? A catahoula.”
Cecilia shakes her head the way the nuns used to when they wanted me to say something and I said something else instead. She folds her arms and says, “I saw a pregnant dog around here about a month ago. It looked wild.”
“Well, I found a Catahoula puppy the night of the flood. If anyone comes here looking for it, let me know, OK?”
Then I hear my call number on my radio. It sounds like Bob Kay. I pick up the radio and say, “3124 - go ahead.”
Kay asks me to return to the office. He sounds excited.
“We got something working?” I ask.
“10-4. We have a name.” His voice is more than excited.
I step off the stool, stretch and thank Joe for the burger.
Cecilia points to the radio and says, “What did that mean?”
“It means it’s time to go play shoot ‘em up.”
Her mouth makes that little ‘O’ again.
For the next six hours, Kay and I and the boys race around the streets like Keystone Cops, trying to locate a man whose name has been given as a hot tip to the Task Force, a man who shot and wounded a Jefferson Parish Deputy several years ago.
At exactly six a.m., Tim Rothman calls Kay on the radio to say the man we’ve been looking for has been in parish prison for the last four months. And again, I’m reminded of one of the first lessons Jodie taught me.
Use the damn police computer.
End of
SNEAK PREVIEW
of the first John Raven Beau Novel
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Also by the Author
Novels
John Raven Beau
Battle Kiss
Bourbon Street
Enamored
Slick Time
Mafia Aphrodite
Mistik
New Orleans Homicide
The Big Show
Crescent City Kills
Blue Orleans
The Big Kiss
Grim Reaper
Short Story Collections
New Orleans Confidential
New Orleans Prime Evil
New Orleans Nocturnal
New Orleans Mysteries
New Orleans Irresistible
Hollow Point & The Mystery of Rochelle Marais
LaStanza: New Orleans Police Stories
Backwash of the Milky Way
Screenplay
Waiting for Alaina
Non-Fiction
A Short Guide to Writing and Selling Fiction
Specific Intent
•
Cover Photo © 2013 O’Neil De Noux
For more information about the author go to http://www.oneildenoux.net
“O’Neil De Noux ... No one writes New Orleans as well as he does.” James Sallis
“… the author knows his stuff when it comes to the Big Easy.” Publisher’s Weekly, 3/13/06
O’Neil De Noux would like to hear from you. If you liked this book or have ANY comment, email him at [email protected]
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City of Secrets Page 22